Quotes About Waiting

One day I will go back to my books and piano, but not yet.

As much as I hate that it's a business decision - like, I'm just picking a school - it really is a business decision. I really don't see anything wrong with waiting it out.

On draft day, I wasn't really nervous at all. Then you turn on the draft, the first five picks go by, and then you still thinking, 'Oh man, I don't know where I'm going to go.' It's really just, by the time draft hits, that's when you get nervous.

I carry a disposable camera. It takes me back to my childhood, when you had to develop your film and wait to see what pictures you got.

I'm one of those people at the airport holding a pillow like a little kid.

I remember talking to comedian Jimmy Pardo about his experience waiting to hear about his own pilot, and we both agreed on one thing: When you can't control your showbiz fate, you can at least control the amount of ice cream you're eating. And if you're like us, it was a lot.

The single biggest advantage a value investor has is not IQ. It's patience and waiting. Waiting for the right pitch, and waiting for many years for the right pitch.

Sometimes you go into a waiting room, and the audition room is right there, and the walls are extremely thin. And you can hear every breath that they're saying. And you're used to that. So you go in, and you're like, 'Oh, whatever.'

Actors are used to staring at the walls waiting for the phone to ring. It's not unchartered territory for us.

For years, people have re-dialed when the line was busy. They waited their turn. When I'm put on hold, I always hope that as my revenge, their other call will be someone wanting to sell them something.

I like being able to tape things and then having them home waiting for you, but just dealing with the Time Warner Cable people will drive you insane.

Old-fashioned girl that I am, I still have a landline, though it rarely rings - and when it does, especially without warning, there's rarely anything good on the other end.

Basically, the last 30 minutes of 'Goodfellas,' that was my neighborhood... literally. There were people on my street who did nothing but just wash their car all day and wait for a package, and that's what I thought being an adult was.

It was a long while later before I heard footsteps on the stairs. Jason looked into the game room, grinned, and opened the door. "I was hoping I'd find you here." "What took you so long?" He held up the DVD for The Rookie and a bag from Ben & Jerry's. Grinning, I patted the love seat. We could be together in the house without getting into trouble. At least, we could try.

But he never came.

The answer is not coming. I have to find an arbitrary point inside the spell of waiting, the open absence, and tear myself away. Leave, with no answer. Move on to the next question.

You have time. Meaning don't use it, but pass through time in patience, waiting for something to come. Prepare for its arrival. Don't rush to meet it. Be a conduit.

pretending as they waited that time had no value and what a lie. A lie they didn't mind. They were on the clock, being paid to forsake time's value by standing under the sun like they had all day.

I thought of the girl in the photo in Ronnie's studio, the one on layaway. She was probably waiting for him this very moment, somewhere downtown. Checking the clock, applying lipstick, concentrating herself into an arrow pointed at Ronnie. Doing the various things women did when they had to wait for something they wanted.

Who knew why they waited, I thought, understanding that I, too, had it in me to wait. To expect change to come from outside, to concentrate on the task of meeting it, waiting to meet it, rather than going out and finding it.

You have time. Meaning don't use it, but pass through time in patience, waiting for something to come. Prepare for its arrival. Don't rush to meet it. Be a conduit. I believed him. I felt this to be true. Some people might consider that passivity but I did not. I considered it living.

And behind me the highway, circling the city like a concrete snake, waits for us.

life was a precious gift, meant to be opened and savored, not tucked away on a shelf, waiting for something that might not ever come.

They had painted a lady leaning her arms on the sill of the window. This lady was waiting for a husband. Her flesh was slack and she was some forty-five years old. Perhaps she had been waiting since she was fifteen. A rose and mauve lady that had not yet gathered her flesh and her beauty into dark clothes, and still waited, like a rose stripped of its petals, with her faded colors and her artificial smile, bitter as a grimace.